


Slow Down, Don’t Rush

by Swindlefingers



Series: Ellara and Samson [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Relationships, Oral Sex, Poor Life Choices, Secret Relationship, Vaginal Sex, too much ass slapping, too much smirking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/pseuds/Swindlefingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two idiots secretly mashing their bits together for the first time. Ass slapping and smirking ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Down, Don’t Rush

**Author's Note:**

> **Explanation of dubcon tag:** Samson is a prisoner of the Inquisition. Although the Inquisitor and he are in a relationship, and she would respect his withdrawal of consent, and he feels that he can say "no", there is an inherent imbalance of power in the relationship that could be perceived as dubious consent. Better safe than sorry.

It’s the Inquisitor’s ass on the edge of a dusty table that’s shoved against a wall, her legs wrapped around Samson’s waist, her heels resting on the back of his knees. There are too many clothes still on, but hands and mouths are moving. He’s getting greedy. He’s moving too fast. He’s trying to shove the tightness in his chest down into his gut. He’s gnawing and clawing.

She won’t have it. She sets the pace like she does with everything between them, sets what she expects, sets what she wants. Somewhere she learned to say what she wanted, instead of waiting for it to happen. Inquisition’s lucky for it.

"Slow down," she whispers. "Don’t rush. It’s just us." She calms with a kiss, long and drawn out.

She wants to ache, wants to touch, wants to learn. He can see it in her crooked smile and her sleepy eyes. He’s not sure he can let her.

He wants it fast, wants it hard, wants it over with. That’s usually the point, right? The faster he gets this done, the less it’ll matter, the less time she can spend peeling parts of him away.

She breaks their kiss to pull his shirt over his head. He primes himself for the cutting laugh, the defeated sigh, the nervous giggle. He knows he’s old, knows he’s soft in the middle, knows he looks a mess. All he hears is her warm hands moving over him, through the dark hair on his pale skin. She runs a finger over each scar she sees. He’s shared the stories to some of them, others he doesn’t want to talk about, and she doesn’t ask. 

She leaves a kiss on each of his palms, the insides of his wrists, the insides of his elbows, on his shoulders, across his chest, up his neck to his mouth. He leans into each one, eyes closed. Her lips are soft and wet against his.

He tugs her shirt off too fast. He grimaces, pats down her fly-away hairs. She chuckles and shakes her head as she unlaces her breast band.

He could tell her that she’s beautiful right now, topless, on this dirty table, in the darkness of a Skyhold dungeon, but unless he says it with the kind of conviction he’s too afraid to use, she would laugh at him for trying. Worse, she could say something kind in return, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

The tightness in his chest rises, his nerves are back. He grabs a fist full of her hair, wrenching her head back, using his tongue to chase the chastisement up her throat, “Slow down. Don’t rush.”

He huffs. He nips at her neck instead of biting, loosens the hold on her hair. His hands roam instead of grab. He takes deep breaths.

He hasn’t done this in a long time; hasn’t gone this slow, hasn’t tried to savor much, hasn’t cared much about the look on his lover’s face. Hers is painted with curiosity, with smiles, with warmth.

_Maker, why?_  
_If I treat you like you’re worth something, maybe you’ll start believing it._  
_Fuck you._  
_That’s what I thought. Never stop fighting, Sam._

Even in his own head, she won’t tell him what he wants to hear.

"This isn’t the time to go fast," she says into his mouth. "Not the first time. The first time we go slow." Each word punctuated with a kiss, or a lick, or a suck, somewhere.

If this is the only time, she seems to want to savor it.

Some parts of her skin under his hands are soft, some are rough. There are freckles on her shoulders, lighter than his. Those elf tattoos go everywhere but her face, maybe one day he’ll map them, trace them with his fingers. Stretch marks on her hips and her tits. Bruises, burns, and cuts from fights outside these walls. Outside, where she’s the Inquisitor. Outside, where she fights for people who ask for help, and for those who aught to ask, but are too proud to do it. He’d kiss her scars too if he thought she needed it. She doesn’t.

He watches her face as she works at the buckle on his pants. He drags his fingers up her arms, feeling the goosebumps, seeing her shiver. His pants drop away. She chews on her bottom lip.

"Why do you want this to go so fast?" she asks while she drags her nails over the skin of his thighs, swirling up his backside, and down his hips, playfully close to his cock. "Do you want to get this over with?"

He works the laces on her breeches as he listens to her talk. She raises her hips so he can finish pulling them off, taking her smalls with them. They’re added to the puddle of clothes at their feet. 

Naked and she doesn’t seem nervous. Maybe elves don’t feel shame being naked, maybe she doesn’t feel shame being naked, maybe she doesn’t feel shame with him.

She dips her head to catch his gaze, “Samson, do you want to do this?” Her brow starts to crease and her eyes narrow. Asking that while laid bare before him seems a stupid thing. Who’d say “no” right now? He knows he could, knows she’d stop, knows she wouldn’t even frown about it. That’s how much she needs him to want this, to want her.

He knows that look now, gotten used to it, seen it used; the eyes and the brows. It’s when she starts to dissect.

_Say it, it’s true._

"Yes," he tries to make it not sound desperate. "I want you," but too quiet to not sound desperate.

Her eyes soften, drawing her hand down his jaw, tilting his chin down to kiss him again. Could she always touch him like this?

Could she always touch him like she’s not the Inquisitor and he’s not the General? Could she touch him like she’s just Ellara and he’s just Samson; two shits-for-brains who want to live without titles for a moment? Who want to pretend like this isn’t a terrible idea? Like this, whatever this is, won’t blow up in their faces? Like this won’t ruin her, like she can afford to be selfish, and like he’s earned respite?

Could she always touch like he’s worth touching, like she enjoys touching him, like he matters?

_I can’t make you matter, Sam._  
_You’d be surprised._  
_Oh, I could make you matter to other people, but not yourself._  
_For fucksake…_  
_Don’t ask, then. You already know what I’ll say._

Even in his head, she won’t give him absolution.

This can’t be always, though, this can only be right now. Right now it’s them pressed together, belly to belly. Her hand around the back of his neck, pulling his face in to nibble on his ears. The other slowly sliding down his cock over his smalls. His hands paw at her cunt, trying to find the places he can touch that’ll make her purr. She covers his hand with hers, guiding his thumb to one side of her clit, rocking it from side to side. He watches her skin flush as she closes her eyes and leans back, letting him touch her for a few moments.

Her eyes open, pushes his hand away, slides off the table, and pulls down his smalls as she drops to her knees in front of him; kisses him from root to tip. He’s watched her hands move over him like this before, in other quiet places they find in Skyhold. Fumbling around like teenagers in the dark, giggling and gasping. She presses her tongue into the sensitive spot under the head of his cock, she watches him sway with her mouth full.

It’s only a few swirls of her tongue before he steps away, “It’s not gonna go slow if you keep that up.” He lifts her up, she sits herself back on the edge of the table.   
She laughs, “Was that the sweet spot?” her hands on his sides, pulling him closer.   
"Mhmm," he hums as his lips skip across her collarbones.

"I want you", she whispers into his ear as he moves up to suck on her neck.

_Why? Why the fuck do you want this._

Her answer would be sweet and he doesn’t want to hear it.

Right now all he wants to hear is skin sliding on skin, and wet, and sucking, and sighs. He wants to hear her breath being knocked loose each time he pushes into her.

She moves back along the table, he follows over her. He lowers himself onto his elbows, his length pressed along her cunt. She grinds her clit against it, small little circles. Her legs press along his sides, he runs his fingers over them, more goosebumps.

"Why are we on a table?" he slides a nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his lips, lets it loudly slip free.  
"Do you see anything else down here?"  
"This is gonna kill my knees," his lips pucker together to blow air over her wet nipple.  
"It’ll be worth it," she responds through a shudder. He smirks.  
"Will it?" he drags his teeth across the other  
"Mhmm…" she reaches between them, grabs his cock and slides it down to press against her center.

It’s just one thrust, but he drives himself as deep as he can go, as quickly as he can. He sucks in air across his teeth, hissing. She rewards him with a delicious little squeak. Her legs squeeze high against his ribs, her knees almost to his armpits. They stay like that for a few dozen heartbeats.

"Fuck," she says under her breath, letting her legs drop down onto the table.

He snorts.

He joins her in repeating, “Go slow.” She clucks her tongue, and swats his ass.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, and takes a deep breath filled with the scent of her skin and hair. Locks all of his away when she’s gone for weeks. Locks away her smell, the way she cursed, the feel of her around his cock, her thighs on his thighs, the way she brushes her lips across the scruff on his face, the knot tightening in his belly, her fingertips on his spine, the way she moves under him.

_Go slow. No rush. It’s just us._

Slowly he pulls out, slowly he presses in. Enveloped by her warmth and sighs, he picks up a good rhythm. Soft slaps, skin on skin. They trade loud kisses, sloppy, wet. She scrapes her teeth along his chin. She hums a giggle or two as her hands kneed his ass, trying to push him deeper.

She wets a finger in her mouth and reaches down between them, he pushes himself up on his hands to give her more room. He looks down to watch her hand dart around behind her thatch of dark hair, to watch his cock glisten with her wetness and disappear into her.

"Faster," she pants.

_Faster? Andraste’s ass, faster._

He lets out an annoyed grunt as he picks up his pace. She’s pushing into him, rolling her hips, countering his strokes. The knot in his belly tightens, heats up. He speeds up to chase down the release he fucking wants.

She whines through her nose.

"You gonna come?" he watches the way her face moves; she bites at her lip, her nostrils flare.  
"Trying," she dips her fingers into his mouth, letting him suck the taste off her fingers. She pulls them free, covered in spit, closes her eyes and slides her hand back down between them.  
"Say my name," he kneads one of her tits, pinching a nipple between his fingers.

She opens her eyes to look at him. She speeds her hand up, daring him to look away first. Her mouth slowly opens in a silent gasp.

"Say it," he hisses, pounding harder, faster.

Her eyes roll back and flutter closed. Her back arches, head pulling back against the table, pressing into him as she whimpers, “Samson!”  
  
He’s undone. Listening to her say his name, feeling her squirm under him, tighten around him. That knot unravels in his gut as a string of curses fall out of him, “Ah, Maker! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” Each fuck punctuated with another deep thrust slower than the last.  
  
She relaxes and falls back onto the table, breathy, sweaty, smiling. He slides off to take his turn sitting on the edge of the table. She draws shapes in the sweat on his back. Should of picked a bigger table.

Just a few more kisses between them until he’s got his trousers back on and dropping his shirt back on over his head. Can’t pretend like no one’s gonna be looking for the Inquisitor sooner or later.

_I’m never going to be all yours, Sam.  
Don’t I know it._

She’s pulling her breeches on, smalls in her hand, looking for her breast band. He picks it up from under the table, and hands it to her. She grabs it, he uses it to pull her into him.  
  
"I pick the spot next time. I’m too classy to be having you on tables, woman."  
"Is that so? I can’t wait to see where his highness will choose next, then."

She yanks her breast band out of his hand, grinning, flicks her head towards the archway near them, “you go first. I’ll leave later on.” Her mouth opens and closes, before she shakes her head, knocking away whatever it was she was trying to say. A quiet smile on her face, “Goodnight, Sam.”  
  
"Night, Elle," he steals one last kiss before disappearing down a dark corridor and into his bed.  
  
_Next time? Next time sure as shit won’t be slow._


End file.
